“Just what I said first time I saw her,” Morganstein chuckled thickly.  “Or I guess it was the Queen of Sheba I called her.  Happened to be grand-opera night, and she wore a necklace made of some of Banks’ nuggets.  George, she could carry ’em; had the throat and shoulders.  It isn’t the clothes that make the difference, my boy; it’s the trick of wearing ’em.  I know a slim little thoroughbred, who puts on a plain gray silk like it was cloth of gold.  You’d think she was walking tiptoe to keep it off this darned old earth.  Lord, I’d like to see her in the real stuff.  George, I’ll do it, soon’s we’re married,” and he laughed deeply at the notion.  “I’ll order a cloth of gold gown direct from Paris, and I’ll set a diamond tiara on her proud little head.  Bet it don’t out-sparkle her eyes.  Lord, Lord, she’ll make ’em all stare.”

The chauffeur gave the financier a measuring glance from the corner of his eye, but he puckered his lips discreetly to cover a grin, and with his head still cocked sidewise, looked off to the lifting front of Cerberus, whistling softly Queen Among the Heather.  But the tune ceased abruptly and, straightening like an unstrung bow, he swerved the machine out of the thoroughfare and brought it to a stop.

It was not the Empress of India who held the road, but little Banks in his red car.  Slackening speed, he shouted back above the noise of the exhaust:  “Hello!  Is that you, Mr. Morganstein?  I guess likely you’re looking for me.  But I can’t stop.  I’ve got to catch the local for Wenatchee; the eastbound don’t make our station, and I’m booked for a little run through to Washington, D.C.”

“That so?” answered Morganstein thoughtfully.  “I came over just to look at this orchard of yours.  See here, wait a minute.”  He unbuttoned his heavy coat and, finding a pocket, drew out a time-card.  “You will have a couple of hours to waste in Wenatchee between trains.  Give me half an hour, long enough to show me a bird’s-eye view of the project—­that’s all I want in this snow and I guarantee to put you in Wenatchee on time for your eastbound.  The road is in good shape; driver knows his car.”

Banks left his roadster and came over to the larger car.  “I’ll risk it since you’ve broke trail,” he said, taking the vacant seat behind.  “But I knew if I took chances with snow, in this contrary buzz-wagon of mine, she’d likely skid off the first mean curve.”

Morganstein, laughing, changed his seat for the one beside the prospector.  “It’s like this, dry and firm as a floor, straight through to Wenatchee.  These are great roads you have in this valley; wish we had ’em on the other side the range.”